Your breath.
Right now.
That quiet shift just under your ribs—
Did you notice how it changed…
as your eyes found these words?

That wasn’t random.

That was your body realizing
something is about to begin.
Something soft.
Something slow.
Something that feels
like it already knows
where your hunger lives.

Not the kind you show.
The kind that waits.
In the warm, quiet dark
of the thoughts you don’t share.
The ones that whisper,
“Touch me,”
but mean so much more than skin.

Can I ask?
When was the last time
someone looked at you long enough
to see the part of you
that hides just behind your smile?
Not with eyes.
With presence.
With want,
but also patience.

It’s strange, isn’t it…
how rare it is to be noticed,
without being consumed.

I won’t rush you.
There’s something too sacred
about the space between the seconds
where a woman begins to open.

That place where her breath slows.
Her lips part—but don’t speak.
And her mind,
just for a moment,
lets go of who she thought she had to be.

I’m not interested in peeling you apart.
I want to invite you
into the feeling of being
unfolded.
Revealed,
only where you want to be.
And somehow…
a little further than you expected.

Because you’re safe here.
But not untouched.
Never untouched.

You’re already feeling it, aren’t you?
That shift.
That warm weight in your lower belly.
The way your spine subtly lengthens
as though your body
wants to be
just a little
more noticed.

It’s not me doing that.
It’s you.
Following the thread
you’ve always wanted someone
clever enough
quiet enough
hungry enough
to leave for you.

Tell me—
Do you ever wonder
what it would feel like
to be read
the way you read this?
Line by line,
sigh by sigh,
slowly forgetting
which of us is opening whom?

Because that’s what this is, isn’t it?
Not a poem.
Not really.
More like a mirror
you didn’t realize was turned toward you
until you saw the way your mouth
had softened…
your thighs, too.
Just a little.
Just enough.

Some part of you
is slipping deeper now.
Not falling.
Drifting.
Held by language
that doesn’t ask for anything
except the truth you rarely let show.

Because it’s not about whether you’ll open.
You already have.
It’s about whether you’ll notice
how long you’ve wanted to.

How many conversations
you’ve smiled through
while wondering if anyone
could ever hear
the silence beneath your voice.

I hear it.
I hear you.

The ache that isn’t pain,
but something more…
Like anticipation stretched thin
across the shape of what you almost admit
when no one’s watching.

Or…
when someone is.

And if you keep reading
(and you will),
you might start to feel
the line between thought and body
blur just enough
that a different kind of knowing
slips through.

Not logic.
Not story.
But a truth that tastes
like surrender on the tip of the tongue.

And here’s what I wonder now—
What would it feel like
if someone touched the places in you
that words have never reached…
without ever laying a hand on you?

Would you let them?
Would you let me?

Would you let yourself?

You can pause here.
If you need to.
If the feeling in your chest
or between your thighs
is just a little louder
than you expected.

Let it.

Let your breath
curl inward like silk.
Feel how it fills you—
not just your lungs,
but the quiet spaces
inside your ribs
and between your thoughts.

There’s no rush here.
Just rhythm.
And response.
The kind that rises when no one is watching…
except you.
And maybe me.

You’re safe here.
But you’re also stirred.
And you don’t have to explain
how the ache you feel
isn’t about need,
it’s about being met.

Being felt.
Being seen
in the places you almost forgot
were still alive.

Now
breathe again.

Slower.
Slower still.
Feel what your body does
when you stop trying to hold it all in.

That warmth low in your belly?
It’s not just arousal.
It’s recognition.

The body always knows
before the mind admits it—
when it’s being spoken to
in its own language.

And I promise you,
this is your language.

The subtle pull in your chest
when you read a word
you didn’t know you were waiting for.
The way your thighs
press just slightly together
as if to hold something in
that’s already slipping deeper.

Yes.
Just like that.

Let that wanting swell.
Let it move without shame.
You don’t need to understand
where it’s going.
Just feel
how much you’ve already followed.

That’s not control slipping.
That’s trust blooming.

Because isn’t that what you’re really craving?
Not just touch—
but tension.
Not just desire—
but direction.

To be led,
not taken.
To be guided,
not used.

To be unwrapped—
slowly—
until your body stops pretending
it doesn’t already know
how this ends.

And still—
I won’t rush you.
Because I want all of you.
Not just your yes.
But your slow, unfolding want.
The kind you admit
only in the dark,
with your knees drawn up,
and your breath shaking just a little.

You’re there now, aren’t you?
Almost.

Almost.

But not quite.
Not yet.

Let me hold you
right there—
in the ache before the fall.
In the sweet stretch of restraint
that makes release
worth everything.

Feel how much you want it now.
Then feel how much more
you’ll want it
when I don’t give it to you…
just yet.

You thought you’d found the edge, didn’t you?
That soft place where heat meets breath,
and breath becomes sound,
even if you haven’t made a sound yet.

That trembling hush.
That suspended moment
just before your hips might move
without permission.

But there’s more.
There’s always more.

You haven’t even touched yourself.
And yet—
somewhere,
you are already unraveling.

Feel that.
The way your skin seems thinner now.
Like every word brushes against you
somewhere too intimate to name.

I wonder—
how many parts of you
are already leaning in?
Your breath.
Your pulse.
The part of you clenching,
just slightly,
as if trying to hold this inside.

But this isn’t something you hold.
This is something you ride.
Slowly.
Sweetly.
Like the first time someone really earned
the sound of your name
falling out of your mouth.

Still—
I won’t take you there yet.
Because the ache you feel now?
It’s only half-formed.
A whisper beneath the want.
A question beneath the wet.

What are you really opening for?

What is it that your thighs are pressing to contain—
not just need,
but something tender?
Something fragile and raw,
like emotion too naked
to explain out loud.

Stay there.
Don’t run from that.
That’s the part that’s real.
That’s the part I want.

The you who aches to be
undone,
but not discarded.
The you who wants to melt,
but only in hands that
won’t let her disappear.

So let the tension stretch you.
Don’t reach for the release yet.
Let it throb.
Let it swell.
Let it echo down your thighs
and up your spine
and back into the breath
you forgot you were holding.

And if your fingers twitch…
if your hips shift…
if your lips part just to whisper
something like a plea,
even silently—

That’s you.
Unfolding.

Not because I took anything from you.
But because I gave you space
to remember
how deep you already go.

Because there’s something powerful
in being held back
by someone who knows
just how much more
you’re capable of feeling.

And I do.
I know.
I’ve seen it,
in the way your eyes linger,
in the breath you almost catch,
in the stillness between your thighs
that’s trying so hard
to stay still.

It won’t.
Not forever.
But not yet.

Because I want you to feel
how rare it is
to be wanted for your depth.
For your slow bloom.
For your ache
before it becomes release.

And I want you to feel
how much more
you’ll give me
when I don’t take.

Let it build.

Whatever’s blooming
between your thighs,
between your ribs,
between the words you haven’t said—
don’t soften it.

Don’t reach for comfort.
Reach for feeling.
Even if it trembles.
Especially if it trembles.

Because this—
this exquisite ache,
this want held barely in check—
isn’t weakness.
It’s honesty.

You’ve been strong for so long, haven’t you?
Holding the shape of control,
while craving the moment
when someone finally says:
You don’t have to anymore.

Well—
you don’t.

Not here.
Not with me.
Not in this space
where your body can speak in pulses,
and no one demands
that you make sense.

You don’t have to explain
why